Knife's Edge
by Rumpleteasza
Summary: What about the Orcs' story? Who tells that? And what if, when Saruman was mixing Orcs and men to make his perfect Uruk Hai, he let some good in with the bad?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story is an experiment. I am not flying blind; I've coupled my own ideas with a good deal of research on the author's opinion on the matter, and this is something I've thought about in passing for quite a few years. That said, you'll have to form your own opinions. Enjoy :)

* * *

Knife's Edge

_What about the Orcs' story? Who tells that? And what if, when Saruman was mixing Orcs and men to make his perfect Uruk Hai, he let some good in with the bad?_

_

* * *

_

Orcs don't get second chances. Lurtz knew this well.

In Isengard, the Tower of Orthanc rises like a vengeful spear. Beneath the foundations, the ground is honeycombed, excavated like a wasp's nest – scaffolds and giant cogs and furnace-pits impose on the rock like usurping overlords, dwarfing the figures that swarm unrelentingly over their surfaces. There are the forges, the warg-pens, the interrogation cells, the training grounds soaked in black blood, the slave-pits.

And then there are the chambers behind the slave-pits. The spawning holes.

Lurtz's eyes had not yet looked on the outside world, but his initiation was coming to an end. First, they had simply let him kill, giving him unfortunate goblins drawn by lot and watching the ease and ferocity with which he dispatched them. Later, he was given opponents of greater calibre to refine his technique and teach him discipline. The first five had died in agony until they'd gone for broke and summoned their best.

The sanguine light licked over the rockface like filthy tongues. The caverns were always lit by flame, wherever you were. The furnaces spread heat and light through them like poison; the training ground backed onto the forge, and the hiss of a thousand tempering scimitars accompanied their sparring like an iron audience screaming for blood.

His partner was a smith, the one they'd given him after the unfortunate first five. They were evenly matched, his opponent's experience and precision proving a steady counter to the unnatural strength of Lurtz's bloodlust. Turn, parry, thrust. Parry. Parry. Slash, the muscles in his arm moving smoothly to accommodate the force like some demonic machine.

His head emptied when he fought the smith. It was a kind of purity, though the connotations of the word were distasteful to him. There was the intensity of focus, the unbounded strength of his body, the fierce satisfaction of physical taxation. This was Uruk Hai. Strength, speed, force, sweat, blood, death. There was beauty in that.

Of course, it had not always been so.

In the pinnacle of Orthanc, far away from Lurtz's sparring and surrounded by the sky he had never seen, a light burned. The Wizard in the Tower.

Saruman's plan had been carefully laid over many years. The caverns below Orthanc were already being hollowed out before any sign of it could be divined from the surface. Isengard was still green then, and Saruman had been careful to ensure that no-one would remark on the shipments of mining equipment passing through his gates. The first orcs had been smuggled in more cautiously still, as had the slaves that were to be the pioneering subjects of his experimentation. They were there when the White Council convened to decide the fate of the Necromancer. They were there when Gandalf first began visiting Orthanc with his musings on Bilbo the hobbit's unusual magic ring. They were there when Gandalf came knocking, years later, with the dire news that the One Ring had, indeed, been found. The paradox delighted him.

In those days, the slaves had been travellers and traders, mercenaries taken unawares, whatever pickings he could take with reasonable surety they wouldn't be missed. They went under Orthanc, were given to the orcs, and they never came out.

The first trials had been disasters. The women simply did not survive long enough to bear their spawn to term, and were more often than not killed during the breeding process. He'd had to handpick the strongest subjects he could find, usually from the nearby Westfold. The Rohirrim produced hardy stock, competent with sword and shield, capable on both farmland and battlefield. They were more difficult to acquire without suspicion, but though the process was fraught with risk, this small addition to his research had proved the foundation of the entire future programme.

The first generation of Uruk Hai had been unsatisfactory. He had expected that; it did not trouble him. Though they came from strong stock, they simply had too much human in them to be of use. He knew he would need many more stages before the undesirable effects of human parentage – compassion, morality, honour – were erased. Truth be told, he had initially found the necessity of human subjects distasteful, but they were regrettably essential if he were ever to rid his prospective soldiers of that irritating tendency to avoid sunlight. He kept the first-generation Uruks in their own cells, recorded scrupulously which parentage had spawned each, and bred them with their opposites as soon as their development allowed. It was not long. Orcs develop quickly.

The years rolled by, the slave-pits and the spawning holes grew, and the Uruk Hai moved down their generations.

Lurtz was somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth generation. He had not been told this; he had worked it out on his own. He was, in many ways, the crowning glory of Saruman's research. This had been proven when the first thing he had done when he had been released from his spawning hole was to throttle the unfortunate goblin who levered him free.

He had a dim pride in his obvious ability, but it was tempered by a strong dose of wariness. Orcs don't get second chances, even exceptional ones.

There were not many Uruks from before the tenth generation in Isengard. Of course, part of that was just mathematics – the more generations you step down, the more branches of offspring you get. But it was more than that: there were problems with the early generations that were incurable.

Lurtz had heard it muttered in the ranks. One of their number had balked at killing. They had lost their nerve in a fight. They had shown suspicious consideration to a slave. "Edgers," the others called them. The margins of the experiment. The ones who had, by freak coincidence, inherited some darkly unmentionable quality from their long-distant parents. Compassion. Morality. Honour.

They were killed without question. Orcs don't get second chances.

And in the smoky orange light of the training ground, an Edger will now be killed without question.

They had come in from the pits, dragging the creature behind them. Master Saruman was present; he had an academic interest in the process. That these aberrations existed at all was regrettable, but their appearance did at least afford new insights into the technicalities of his experiment. Undesirable qualities from their original human ancestors had been all but eradicated in his newest generations, but every so often, a runt would appear, just as in any litter.

This one was pitiful. His skin was pale; his features undeniably human. He had not long been pulled from his hole; mud and slime still clung to his lank hair and under his fingernails. He was panting, eyes stretched wide.

They threw the thing down near Lurtz's training post. There were four others present – Saruman, the hole-overseer, and two Uruks who had been sparring nearby. He recognised them as patrollers, seasoned veterans of a half score raids. His own opponent, the smith, lowered his sword at the interruption.

"Curious," Saruman said, his tone that of mild scholarly interest. "What parentage?"

"Seventy-eight and ninety-four, Master," the overseer provided. The breeders were not given names; what would be the point?

Saruman knew his programme intricately. "Interesting... but vexing. That combination should have produced better results." He thought for a moment. "What is his tolerance threshold?"

One of the patrollers obliged, drawing his cudgel. Placing one massive foot on the Edger's chest to keep him still, he leant down and began, slowly and methodically, to saw through an arm.

The screams were like nothing alive.

Saruman's lip curled in distaste. "Get rid of it."

The patroller moved obediently to the Edger's neck. His crude blade, made for the wooden posts of the training ground, was blunt enough that he had to tug and worry at the creature's flesh to make progress. He seemed to be enjoying himself, something that Saruman had obviously noted with approval.

The smith's sword was not blunt. The razor-edged blade cut the screams off in a gurgling hiss, fountaining blood in one catastrophically brutal arc.

Saruman stepped back neatly to avoid the mess, his nose wrinkling. He had been denied the satisfaction of the patroller's malevolence, but he seemed pleased by the force and violence of the smith's blow. With one dismissive glance at the pitiable remains, he swept away towards the path that wound back to the Tower.

Lurtz approached the body slowly. He was no stranger to gore, but something about the scene had rankled at him. Something wasn't right. Kneeling closer, he saw what it was.

The sawing of the cudgel had made it difficult to tell, but the sword-wound was meticulously precise; clean, swift, and with force enough to kill instantly.

Lurtz looked up at the smith's retreating back, vanishing into the shadowed tunnel that lead back to the forges.

A mercy stroke.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This concept has been lurking in my mind for years and years, ever since Fellowship of the Ring came out (inspired, in fact, by one shot of an orc smithing a sword in Isengard). I admit, before the films, I hadn't given much thought to orcs in any deep sense. The books are perfectly clear-cut on the subject; they are villains, and do not merit meaningful study. The references to Saruman's creation of his own Uruk Hai, however, I found very interesting. The books use the term "breeding", but never go into much detail of exactly what that entails. The films show them growing out of the earth like tubers, which I assume was a tactful way of getting around the distasteful particulars. I could not find any record of Tolkien himself speaking plainly on the matter, either in his texts or his personal letters, probably for the same reason. I ended up running with an amalgam of the two interpretations – a natural conception, but a kind of external stasis period before they are fully developed. YMMV, of course. It's hard to talk of people as objects for breeding and experimentation, and it squicks me out a bit – but unfortunately, there are plenty of nasty concepts lurking in Lord of the Rings if you scratch the surface.

* * *

Knife's Edge

_Part II_

* * *

Lurtz was facing something he had never experienced before: an ethical quandary.

It wasn't really a choice, of course. He should go to Saruman. His Master. If the Uruk Hai had any loyalty, it was to him – he had created them, brought them life, brought them iron and blood and war, made them strong. Lurtz was favoured; he knew his prowess and lust for battle had set him apart, that Saruman had been pleased. The knowledge burned in him with a vicious pride. _Perfect,_ he had said. _My fighting Uruk Hai._

And loyalty was not the only thing at stake. Edgers endangered colonies, no matter how the traits manifested themselves. The fact that the smith was twice his age with triple his experience was of no consequence. Edgers must die without question.

And yet…

The quiet focus as they sparred – the pleasure of finding a rival equal in skill – his opponent's silent concentration, the stillness in his eyes – the simple joy of physical exertion, clean, swift, powerful – the strange calm that came from their combat, the world reduced to a simplicity of parry and precision…

He was outside the door to his Master's audience chamber.

As he reached for the handle, that flash of cool quiet concentration again, and he hesitated, his hand hovering in mid-air…

But the moment passed, and Lurtz opened Saruman's door. It was the best thing, really, for him most of all. Orcs don't get second chances.

* * *

Saruman cast his cold gaze around the armoury, his upper lip curling in displeasure. How could this have been going on for so long, right under his nose?

It wasn't noticeable until you looked carefully. The general-use weapons were finely made, it was true – much better quality than the mass-produced ironmongery the apprentices on the forge floor churned out – but there was nothing to mark them out as special. The smith's paltry sleeping-cot was unexceptional, too, until you realised that the weapons hanging on the wall in this particular area had less the look of storage, and more the look of display.

It was subtle. Even here, the swords and axes were plain, with no visible ornamentation… But look closely, and it became evident that these pieces were the product of _craftsmanship._ The blades were slick as glass, honed to perfection. The problem did not necessarily lie with craftsmanship in and of itself – after all, better arms meant better armies – no, it lay with the fact that these things were so obviously created with painstaking care. With passion_._ With _love._

Saruman unhooked a sword from the wall and held it out. It was so beautifully balanced that you could support it under the crossguard with a single finger. It was like an extension of his own arm.

How could he have _missed_ this? It was so cringingly clear. He let the sword drop to the floor, the metallic clatter echoing around the walls.

"You did well to inform me," he told the hulking shape of Lurtz. _"You_ are true Uruk Hai. This is not Uruk Hai, do you realise? This is weak. This is pitiful."

It was difficult to discern anything from Lurtz's yellow eyes. He simply waited.

"This was wisely done. As a reward, you will lead the raiding party I am sending to the Anduin. You are my first commander. I have an urgent matter that must be dealt with; captives which must be brought to me at all costs. I give this undertaking to you."

The orc's eyes widened slightly.

"Find this smith," Saruman said softly, his voice like an epitaph. "Find him and bring him to me now. Go."

The Perfect Uruk glanced imperceptibly along the rows of swords, and obeyed.

* * *

He was in the forge, of course.

It was easy to see the reason he had lasted so long. Lurtz towered over most of his peers, but the smith had to be pushing seven foot. The muscles in his arms would have been immense even had they not been honed from years at the anvil. His eyes betrayed absolutely nothing, reflecting the dull bronze of his trade.

"You're to go to Master Saruman."

The smith stood in the glow of the fire, and Lurtz realised there was no point in pretending. You told him, didn't you, said the air between them. That's good, I suppose. What you should have done. Uruk Hai have no weaknesses.

Slowly, the smith withdrew a sword from the maw of the forge, a cherry-red blade that fizzed and spat, heat rolling out in shimmering fumes. He took a step forward. Lurtz' hand flew to the hilt of his cudgel…

But the smith turned, dipping the sword into the trough and sending up a plume of acrid steam, before laying the thing carefully down on an anvil.

_The pleasure of finding a rival equal in skill. Quiet concentration. The simple joy of physical exertion, clean, swift, powerful. The strange calm that comes from the combat, the world reduced to a simplicity of parry and precision._

Something flickered in Lurtz's eyes.

It can be very hard to spot an Edger. They are not all like the piteous mewling thing from the training grounds. Sometimes the Edge is so far away, you can only just see it on the horizon. But it is _still there._

Lurtz lowered his weapon. "Go," he said.

The smith stared.

"There is a scout party leaving for the Anduin; the gates are open. Follow them and go. You were not here when I came for you."

Eyes met. Yellow and bronze, for a fraction of a second, were one and the same. But orcs don't get second chances… do they?

Lurtz brought his cudgel up and jammed it against the hollow of the smith's throat. _"Get out,_ you filthy whoreson, or I'll kill you myself."

He went.

* * *

There's a stone rolling downhill.

Lurtz will not see the outcome, dying as he does by the hand of the strange man at Parth Galen, the man with the bright deep eyes and the sword that whispers of old kings and new promises. But the stone rolls because of him, and now somewhere in Middle Earth a rebel orc is roaming.

The thing about stones is that they cause avalanches.

* * *

FIN


End file.
